“Sure. My treat. It’s the least I can do after you found Lachlan.”
“He was never really missing,” Agatha says. “He was always safe . . . in the storeroom.”
“I know, but I still don’t understand how the door locked behind him.”
“No,” says Agatha, who changes the subject. “Let’s have coffee at Gail’s—unless you want to go somewhere else.” She looks at me hopefully.
“No, I love Gail’s.”
We grab our bags and push through the swinging doors. Clusters of women are chatting on the footpath, dangling keys from manicured fingers. Across the road the river smells of low tide and fat-bottomed boats are marooned on the mud, canted drunkenly sideways. Turning onto Barnes High Street, we pass rows of specialty shops, boutiques, and property agencies. The butcher waves to me. A school mother smiles and nods.
“You seem to know everyone,” says Agatha.
“It’s a village,” I say, “but there isn’t much privacy.”
At the café we decide to sit inside, out of the cold wind. Automatically, the conversation turns to babies. What else is there when we’re both so near? Pregnancy. Prenatal classes. Obstetricians. Pain relief.
“I’m booked in for a cesarean,” I say. “Otherwise I’ll tear again.”
“Tear?”
“Down there.” I motion to my lap. “Lucy and Lachlan had big heads and I have a small pelvis.”
Agatha grimaces.
“You’ll be fine. It’s amazing how far we women can stretch.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Christ, yes! But you forget about that afterwards. That’s why we do it all over again.”
“So you know the day?”
“December seventh.”
“How long will you be in hospital?”
“Four or five days.” I pour my peppermint tea. “Where are you having yours? Wait! You told me. Leeds.”
“My mother lives there. She’s going to be with me.”
“So there’s no chance your fiancé can get home?”
Agatha shakes her head. “I’ll make sure there are lots of photographs.”
“It’s not the same thing though, is it?” I say. “When Lucy was born, Jack said he wanted to stay at the top of the bed, holding my hand because he didn’t want to see the ‘business end,’ but when push came to shove—and I mean that literally—he was down there, giving me a blow-by-blow account. He called it like a penalty shootout at the World Cup.”
Agatha laughs. She has a pretty face and a bashful smile, as though embarrassed or fearful of making a mistake. She asks me how I met Jack and how long we’ve been married. Like everyone else, she seems impressed that he works on TV.
“It’s not as glamorous as you think,” I say. “He’s away most weekends and he missed our last two wedding anniversaries because of European Cup qualifiers. My birthday falls during the Tour de France, so he misses that as well.”
“How long does he go away?”
“Three weeks for the tour. I get boozy telephone calls from French bars or bistros every night.”
“Men have no idea,” says Agatha, whose sweater is covered in pastry crumbs. “Do you ever worry about him being away from home—all the temptation?”
“I used to,” I say, “but he’s a keeper.”
I sound confident, but occasionally I have pictured Jack partying with those skimpily clad models in Lycra shorts and sponsors’ T-shirts who stand on the podium with the stage winners. I don’t say this to Agatha (I’ve never said it to Jack), but I know he loves me.
“Is he excited about the baby?” asks Agatha.
“It took him a while.”
“Why?”
“This is our oops baby. We hadn’t planned on having another one.”
“Really?”
Agatha seems surprised by the news. We order more drinks and keep talking.
“How about you?” I ask. “Where did you go to school?”
“Leeds, mainly,” she says, “but really all over the place. I ran away from home when I was fifteen.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t get on with my stepfather.”
“Did you go back?”
“I went into foster care.”
“But your mother . . . ?”
“We’re friends now.”
“What about after school?”
“I went to secretarial college,” says Agatha, making it sound very underwhelming. “But I did once do a course to become a makeup artist. Mostly I did weddings and parties.”
“Anyone famous?”
“God, no! I’ve never met anyone famous—not like you.”
“What makes you think I’ve met famous people?”
Agatha’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. There is an awkward pause.
“Jack works in TV . . . I just assumed,” she mumbles.
I laugh, hoping she might relax. “I used to work for a magazine. I once interviewed Jude Law.”
“What was he like?” asks Agatha.
“Very handsome and very cheeky.”
“Did he flirt with you?”
“I think maybe he did.”
“He fancied you?”
“He wouldn’t look twice at me now.”
AGATHA
* * *
I marvel at how Meg can transform herself from a ponytailed, Lycra-clad gym bunny into a sophisticated, modern wife and mother. Next to her I feel as clumsy and frumpy as a pantomime horse. Meg ordered the peppermint tea and a fruit salad—the healthy choice. I chose a large cappuccino and a chocolate éclair that has flaked all over my sweater, which is knitted from such wiry wool that it foils any attempt to brush the crumbs away.
“It’s so nice to see someone enjoy her food,” says Meg, not meaning to tease me.
“I’m such a klutz.”
“So am I.”
“No you’re not.”
“You would be amazed at how much baby food I managed to get in my hair.”
“Yes, but that’s not your fault.”
A trio of teenage schoolgirls pass the café wearing lip gloss and eyeliner and their skirts rolled up an inch or two, showing off their legs.
“I used to have a body like that,” says Meg, sounding mournful.
“Lucky you.”
“Shush. I think pregnancy suits you,” she says.
“That’s because I’ve grown into my body,” I reply. “Right now I feel decidedly unsexy and un-lusted after.”
“I don’t think un-lusted is a word.”
“You know what I mean.”
Meg keeps asking me questions and I swing between the truth and lies, rarely answering her directly. Lying comes very naturally to me, while the truth is awkward and uncomfortable, like ill-fitting shoes. It’s not that I set out to be manipulative or cunning, and the lies I tell others are nothing compared to the ones I tell myself.
Meg talks about growing up in Fulham and going to a private girls’ school in Hammersmith.
“Any brothers or sisters?” I ask.
“A sister—Grace. How about you?”
“I did have a half brother, but he died when he was five.”
“What happened?”
“He was killed in a car accident.”
“That’s terrible. How old were you?”
“Eleven.”
Meg tells me more about Grace, making her out to be a rebel. I’m expected to disclose similar intimacies about my upbringing. Why do casual conversations inevitably turn to childhood? I know that friends share memories like this, but why should I have to reveal details of siblings, punishments, pets, holidays, hijinks, broken bones or broken hearts or who has the craziest mother?
“What about you, Agatha?” she asks. “What do you do in your spare time?”